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The High Heels - You are not alone | AVON

Trigger Warning: Asset and Moral Violence

THE HIGH HEELS

 

We were inseparable.

Our relationship began about five years ago, and since then there were thousands of parties, dinners, celebrations, and

weekend getaways.

She treated me differently from the others, and would always pick me for special occasions.

I was there when she graduated from college. The first one in that humble family to do so.

I was also there for her first job interview and on the day she stepped into an office for the first time.

And finally, I was there on the one day that was supposed to be the most special of her life.

It was a simple, but charming wedding.

As vain as she’s always been, she saved money for months just to buy her dream dress. The only thing that fit into her

tight budget.

Everything else was on him. A nice man from a "good family", as her mother would say.

 

At first, everything was beautiful.

We kept on going out together. Me, her, and him.

Slowly, the parties gave place to dinners at her mother-in-law's house.

And the celebrations with her friends from work, gave place to movie nights.

Skirts and dresses gave room to blue jeans.

The red lipstick she loved so much was replaced by a more discrete one.

Her loose, long hair was now always tied.

 

After six months I stopped going out.

I was then kept at the back of the closet, next to a pair of old slippers and worn-out tennis shoes.

By then, I couldn't really figure out why.

Every now and then she’d get me out of there, always when she was alone.

She’d put on her red lipstick, let her hair down and try on the dresses and skirts she had always love so much.

She’d catwalk down the hallway, with the confidence she once had.

But that was it.

For a long time, that was the only path I walked.

And the only path she also walked.

 

He, on the other hand, was never home.

He would often call around 8 PM to say that he was stuck at work.

She would hang up the phone and cry.

Day in.

Day out

Day in.

Day out

 

On a given Saturday, he told her that they were going out.

An end-of-the-year gathering at his boss' house.

He told her to look nice and presentable, since he needed to impress his friends from work.

At 6 PM she began to dress up. She tried on three different dresses, tested a few hairstyles, and switched lipsticks a

couple of times.

She ended up choosing the red one.

When she finally opened the closet, I felt like it was my lucky day.

We were finally going out together, like in those old glory days.

 

She put on her favourite perfume, gazed in the mirror, and after a long time, seemed to admire the woman she was seeing.

She left the room to meet her husband, who was already dressed up, sitting on the couch.

She snuck up behind him and kissed him on the cheek.

She was thrilled, dazzling.

He turned his face and looked at her, but the excitement feeling didn't seem to be mutual.

He checked her from head to toe, reprovingly, and abruptly stood up.

He asked her where she thought she was going, dressed up like that. And what the hell she wanted.

He shoved her, which made her twist her foot and fall on the hallway we used to stroll together.

We just stood there.

On the floor.

As he kept on shouting.

Slut.

Slut.

Slut.

 

She was crying and quivering as he bent down.

He rubbed his hand over her face, smearing the red lipstick.

He tore her favourite dress and threw me in the living room.

And then grabbed her by her loose hair and dragged her into the bedroom.

Whore.

Respectful women don't dress up like that.

He slammed the door and left.

 

I just stood there, under the couch, from where I could hear her cry for hours.

He didn't come home that night.

And she only came out of the bedroom on the next day.

She had her hair tied up, blue jeans and a white T-shirt. She picked up what was left of the dress and then also picked

me up.

Her face was swollen and red, clearly indicating the sleepless night she had.

Between tears and sobs, she put us in a trash bag out on the sidewalk.

After five years, our relationship came to an end.

That house no longer had room for the both of us.

 

Sometimes, the only witness cannot speak for you.

 

 

 

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